


Six of One

by Firelight_and_Rain



Series: The Fool, The Knight, The Knave [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ensemble Cast, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-20 22:11:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13727013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Firelight_and_Rain/pseuds/Firelight_and_Rain
Summary: Or, Half Dozen of the Other.*“So it’s about you. Not some border dispute.”Anders shrugged. “What can I say? I’m popular.”*Something needs to be done about that former Templar, Rolan.





	Six of One

**Author's Note:**

> I'll come out and say that I'm generally very much not a fan of Awakening!Anders AUs. Their (Justice and Anders') arc in 2 is very important to me, 2 being my favorite installment in the franchise and for more personal reasons that are pretty common in Anders-positive spaces, but -
> 
> The way Anders talks about Justice in 2 - in my 'canon', which is a friendship romance - always sort of ate at me. Because they weren't remarkably close friends in Awakening. And as much fun as I have with trying to piece together everything about the possession, I wanted to see if I could shore up my more positive spin on their journey together by seeing if they'd wind up in the same place without the magical fiat of possession happening - as well as, maybe, looking at some familiar characters with a new eye.
> 
> (And take the opportunity to 'smooth out' some writing choices, granted, that I disagree with, now that I'm not leaning on positive fandom spaces so heavily for my mental health - so's I'm still an Anders and Justice and mHanders positive fan, but this and future work will likely be more critical than my past stuff).
> 
> I'm posting this as a separate fic because it does stand alone as an aimless sort of For Want of a Nail tragedy, but while harm does befall Anders and I leave it at a cliffhanger - don't worry, he'll be just fine. But I don't have the rest of the fic written yet, and can't commit to posting it until it's done.
> 
> **cw** - Anders' PoV, Oghren's characteristically tasteless language, workplace harassment and canonical harm to Anders
> 
> ships: out of focus Anders/Isabela, background Velanna/Nate, and absolutely nowhere ever is Anders jealous of anyone else no sir
> 
> And yes my asshole Orlesian Warden is named Gaston.

“If I go down there, it won’t end well. It probably won’t end well anyway, but I’m trying to be optimistic.”

“That’s good,” Sigrun said, cross-legged on the carpet as Anders untangled Pounce’s claws from his scarf. Sigrun, kitten, scarf, carpet, the soft multicolored light falling through Tabris’ window; all good things; Anders did his best to listen only to Pounce’s complaints. “Look. I know you don’t like them much, and I’d feel the same if Ketti ever brought in any Carta dusters, but if they survive the Joining then they’re probably fine. It takes all sorts of soldierly character to survive that.”

“Oghren survived it,” Anders pointed out. “In fact, he didn’t even faint.”

“And has he ever done us wrong? I know.” She held up her hands. “I know. But the Wardens is a nice gig. They’re not going to cause trouble.”

“No Templar ever has to do anything, really,” Anders said, the word spilling out down his throat and his hands and getting, all oily, over the scarf, Pounce’s fur, the carpet.

“Think of it this way. You won’t always have to partner with Justice on patrols when Oghren is hungover anymore.”

“I have only ever seen that happen once, and I’m still not sure it wasn’t the result of getting bashed in the head by an ogre.”

*

“It was my understanding that mortals didn’t prefer to share washrooms,” Justice said, arms crossed. Anders took a certain vicious delight in how he didn’t bother to track Rolan’s crony, who Anders had mentally dubbed Buckethead for how his face managed to retain a rectangular shape even when he was out of his armor. The Templar-affiliated Wardens, or at least the Wardens tainted by that association, all looked ugly to Anders, which might have been less than the whole truth, but anyway it made telling them apart difficult and properly nicknaming them equally difficult as a consequence.

“That’s what you’re taking from this? Really? You saved my neck because you thought he was being rude.”

“It’s been impressed on me that it’s important not to be rude. Inescapably.”

It occured to Anders that Justice was maybe (probably) being obtuse on purpose. 

“Yeah, well, you need it.”

Justice huffed at Anders, a little bit, and left.

*

“You’re heading out?”

Anders hadn’t waited til Nathaniel joined him for dinner, or in the barracks for the night. This was a practical decision, not a pushy one, because Caron was in the habit of assigning any of them on very short notice. The constable hadn’t taken kindly to Anders’ pointed complaints about this. Yes, they’d followed Aniketos at the commander’s whim, even into the Deep Roads, even lacking sleep or a plan; but that was Aniketos. The person who’d cut down Templars for Anders. And they’d traveled together, not always the same constitution of people but always people he’d come to know well. 

And Tabris outranked Caron.

Nate shot Anders a guilty look, and after a moment handed him a piece of parchment. “Yes. The Warden-Constable needs a patrol to route more darkspawn from the plains; I’m to lead it.”

“Congratulations, I’m sure.” Anders didn’t read the missive. “When are we leaving?”

Nate’s expression set in place. “You’re not assigned to this patrol.”

“Well, I’ll assign myself, then. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you how often I’ve saved your skin because you think you can do Justice or Tabris’ job.”

“You don’t,” Nate agreed, not unkindly. “But I already asked Caron to change the roster for you, and while I don’t mind doing that, Anders, he’s getting more and more insistent, and I don’t want you wearing yourself out either.” He smiled and clapped Anders on the shoulder. “Like you said, we all need our resident healer too much.”

Anders tried to smile back. And if it didn’t take, he just hoped he wasn’t openly glowering instead. Nate didn’t deserve that, and more importantly it wouldn’t help his case. “I think I’d sleep easier outside, at the moment.”

“This is about Rolan, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it’s about Rolan!” Anders hissed, anxious that the man in question could somehow hear them. It was unlikely that he’d be able to sneak up on Nathaniel, of all people, and not likely that he’d want to, but call Anders paranoid. When a demographic of people were able and willing to level accusations of blood magic, he didn’t want to be caught manipulating people by asking for help.

(The part of his mind that had always thought he’d make a smashing Magister pointed out that Nate would be a good target for it).

Nate’s expression set. “Anders … you’re a Warden now. In addition to what the Warden-Commander thinks, and we all stand by them -”

“That goes without saying.”

“You’re supposed to be here, according to Chantry law. You’re serving the land against the Blight, after all.”

“Somehow, the Templars aren’t particularly impressed by that. They know that there’ll be fewer and fewer darkspawn, and - more time for me to start living. As a mage, and all that. Temptation around every corner.”

“Well, that day isn’t here yet, and we’ll handle it when it comes. It’s what Wardens do.”

As Nate turned to leave, Anders said after him, “Nate, would you -”

Move Justice off the patrol list, at least.

But no. Not with Justice’s little existential problem, and his own little existential problem, and Rolan already looking for an excuse, spreading rumors, probably ... Even if some days he suspected that Nathaniel’s highborn idealistic streak would lead him to do something remarkably stupid for Justice, sooner or later, that wasn’t any sort of defense. Even in the Circle, even when he’d been yet more of a cad, he’d never been the type to throw under apprentices to the Aeonear, and no Templar would believe that the devout nobleman was more at risk for possession than the mage. 

Better to lose some sleep, take a few bruises than a sword, right? 

Nate turned to look at him. Anders paused and then shook his head. “Never mind. Just come back in one piece.”

Nate smiled, and it was only a little bit guilty. “I’ll keep my eyes open for Tabris while I’m on patrol.”

“Make sure you don’t neglect our other mage in process, anyway. You’re gonna need all the help you can get.”

Nate waved him off with a huff.

What? He would.

*

Tabris had known, in their caution and troubled silences those last days before they’d disappeared after ‘a dear friend from the Blight’, that Rylock’s death hadn’t been the end of the Templars’ interest in Anders. He might have still been a minor player on the world stage, even with his conscription, mix of ascendance and doom as it was, but he had far too much history back in Calenhad to leave the memory of him standing there, laughing at its chains, without a broken body to put the lie to it. Yet. The Hero of Ferelden had left behind such strong walls, such dedicated soldiers, and even had the grudging, complacent terror of the local nobles … And it wouldn’t be a long absence, because the Queen had stationed them there. The Queen, another figure growing tall towards legend as the sun started its descent from the noonday zenith of her life.

So it was easy to ignore Anders’ vocal unease with the small contingent of Templar-recruits turned Warden-recruits.

It didn’t help that he’d known his fellow senior Wardens long enough that they’d started to become suspicious of him. The never-ending chatter, the facts and trivia that he dropped, like small change, about his life changing like Ferelden’s seasons, the nervous energy. The cowardice. That was what honesty was called when it came from a Warden about their shit-stinking grave-digging job. Oghren still sometimes made jokes about him running, although he’d come back, might have been the first Warden called to duty, aside from poor, pretty, dead, valorous Mhairi, if Aniketos had just. Pushed.

He wasn’t going to run. He wanted to. Moreso with their guests.

Justice took it seriously. It helped, although Anders still feared that Justice might choose to switch tactics from being passively unpleasant at the templars to picking a fight. There were good odds that Justice would come out the other side of that, but if so, they’d be facing the question of whether the Divine could call an Exalted March against a Warden outpost.

*

“Warden Anders, where did the stamina potions go?”

“I sent a half-dozen along with the Constable’s patrol; why?”

“There’s two-dozen missing.”

“Two dozen?! That’s our entire supply, except for the reserve, and while I don’t think lyrium spoils - it’s rock, after all - I’m not sure I trust Orlesian craftsmanship.” Anders did not have anything in particular against the Orlesians; he wasn’t Ferelden, (they wouldn’t let him be Ferelden, not to keep - ) and it wasn’t just Orlais that bent the knee to the White Divine.

“How big is the reserve?”

“What does it matter? Who stole my potions?”

*

“We need more support for our next excursion, mage.”

“What were you doing with your last batch of support? Showing an entire brothel what-for, instead of the darkspawn? I didn’t think even you’d need that much help!”

It had been too long since Rylock, Biff - the blow knocked any retort right out of his head. He took a step back, and a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. He ducked away from it, but by then he recognized who the gauntlet belonged to.

“Lay a hand on him again, Recruit, and you won’t be entitled the succor of shelter from me or my brothers and sisters.”

“And try to pull rank on me or mine, demon, and you and these deluded fools will be hunted like the vermin in the Deeps.”

“Demon?! You would -”

Anders grabbed for Justice’s wrist, halting the de - the spirit’s, Maker blast him, the spirit’s forward lean into Rolan’s space. Rolan was not far from of a height with Anders, and strong, in his prime; Kristoff had been even taller than Anders in life. “Let it go, Justice, blast it.”

The metal of the greave shifted as if it encased a living hand at rest, neither straining nor heavy and dead. The stillness spoke to iron-bar ship hull braced blades strength. Anders didn’t let himself look relieved that Justice had stopped in sullen compliance. He was scared himself, and the less Rolan could guess the better.

“He -”

“I know what he did. We all -”

Rolan had gone pale under his Marcher tan, looking up into a dead man’s animated scowl, but hadn’t backed away, which Anders had to credit him for. If Justice had gone at him in that mood he’d be halfway back to Calenhad. “You will not make a fuss of this to the other Wardens. Seniority aside, with the Warden-Commander gone indefinitely I work more closely with the Empress’ Warden than either of you.”

“The Warden-Commander will return, and the truth will out.”

“Will they?” Rolan murmured to himself, and smiled. It was not a nice smile, less so for that it didn’t seem performed for either of them. He really was just satisfied with the turn of events. “Good day, Senior Wardens. Prepare for deployment in two weeks; I’ll give you that time to prepare enough magic to outfit us like chevaliers.”

“If you want to nab a knighthood, Rolan, you’d better give me the damn vials back, at least.”

Rolan paused long enough to nod in agreement. It was almost civil. Anders’ face stung, and he felt churlish about the prospect of being locked in a room crafting like a damn Tranquil before returning to the damn Deep Roads. He dropped Justice’s wrist.

Justice didn’t move. “I’m sorry. I think I forced more of a compromise than you wanted to give.”

“Yes, well. You should be. His threat wasn’t an idle one, you know.”

“He already wasn’t idle.”

“Well, you know. I don’t enjoy a slap across the face any more than the next man - save in circumstances that come with safewords - but it really wasn’t that bad, Justice. Look. You’re dead. Why worry about me?”

Justice wheeled on Anders and stared down at him. “He struck an unarmed brother in arms after abusing your hospitality, and presumed that I feared him enough to dishonor myself by doing nothing. His presence offends me.”

“Well, I’m glad that we’ve established that this is about you.”

Justice didn’t react to that, which wasn’t a surprise. He just stared. Anders fidgeted, but the walls of the Keep seemed cold and forbidding, and Justice. Justice wasn’t a comfort, except for the part where he’d nearly done something inadvisable to a templar in defense of Anders’ honor. Anders wasn’t sure where he’d got the impression that Anders had any honor left. Anders wasn’t pretending to be a better man than he was, and he doubted he should be able to fool an incarnate virtue even if he tried. 

“I’m sorry that I did not step forward earlier. I would have caught the blow for myself, if I could.”

“And I would have enjoyed watching Rolan break his hand in the process.”

*

More missing supplies, and this time Anders elected not to fuss about it within earshot of the Templars. Not too loudly, at least.

Justice started showing up in whichever room Anders was, even if he wasn’t any more inclined to field Anders’ jokes and questions than before. Sometimes he’d even bring a book, if Anders was working in one place for a time, such as on the Maker-damned potions.

“Aren’t you supposed to be training the soldiers?”

“Rolan’s set one of his men on it,” Sigrun said. She was perched on a stool next to Justice and also had a book open. Had they formed a book club? Anders had been part of book clubs before. He had trouble manifesting any interest in the subject matter, but he liked an audience.

“My continued presence would have provoked conflict.”

“He got called a demon again,” Sigrun elaborated.

Anders didn’t feel as bad about the results as he should have.

*

“If you’re here for your potions, you’ll just have to wait.”

“Is something going to blow up if I interrupt you?”

Anders spilled half of the potion he was pouring into an alembic, and the other half down the side. It wafted away into vapor on touching the wooden worktable, but did not, in fact, explode. “Oh, good. I thought you were someone else.”

“Good to see you again, too, Anders.”

“Did you know that Justice and Sigrun made a book club?”

“Sorry, what?”

“I don’t know what they’re reading. Even though I probably should, because I’m in the club too. Which sort of puts me in mind of this Warden thing.”

Nate paused. “Are you alright, Anders?”

“Peachy.”

Nate gave him a long look making it clear that he didn’t believe him. “If you’re sure. I’ll go find the others; we’re meeting in the secret basement room in half an hour. Senior Wardens only.”

Anders paused in putting his materials away to give Nate a searching look, but he was already leaving.

*

“So, this is us going behind Rolan’s back, right?” Sigrun asked cheerfully.

Justice shifted uncomfortably. Velanna appeared to be sleeping against the wall, her gear dropped off at the barracks but the mage herself still exhausted by her recent patrol. And maybe even mana burn - Nate seemed to be fine, but maybe he was just putting on a strong face for the rest of them. Oghren was, for some damn reason, trying to compose a letter.

“Is that an ode to your keg? You already live with the thing. Now you’re just trying too hard.”

Oghren grunted at him. “It deserves it, anyway. Naw, this is for the lady wife.”

“I thought you gave up on imaginary friends after the skeet incident.” The skeet incident, involving Oghren, Ambassador Cera’s laundry, Tabris’ mabari Hari, a unusually creative spell wisp (he really hadn’t told it to do that, though he wouldn’t put it past Velanna) and the Howe’s stash of whiskey, was probably Anders’ favorite memory. Not that he’d admit it to the dwarf, that sentiment being too close to complimentary.

“He really is married, Anders,” Nate said, before Oghren, who’d looked up from his letter, could start in.

“Are we going to start, or should you wake me up when he sets the dwarf on fire?” Velanna hadn’t been sleeping after all.

“We will start,” Justice agreed.

“Trying hard much, Justice?” Anders muttered under his breath. Nate gave him an unkind look.

“Basically,” Sigrun said with a loud clap, “Rolan’s a high-and-mighty asshole, which is nothing new for most of us, but the problem is that Gaston Caron is almost worse, and they’re buddies now. Velanna wasn’t actually supposed to be on that last patrol - she was supposed to be going into the near-Surface roads with some of the soldiers we’ve got half-trained -”

 

“I would have been fine. We have a truce with the Architect, do we not?” She didn’t mention Seranni, but the anxiety to move forward was still audible.

“Yes, but we don’t have a truce with the rest of the Mother’s forces, or blighted giant spiders, or -”

“Or assholes!” Sigrun broke back in. “Well, we do have a truce, but that’s the problem. Everyone except the Commander (and you, Justice) has an angle, and we’re all worried that Anders is right.”

“Thank you,” Justice said.

“What?” Anders said.

“Velanna’s powerful,” saying this, Nate reached over and took her hand, and Anders pulled a face at them, “but putting her as the lone Warden in a troop of superstitious, unexperienced farmers - away from the natural world - was asking for trouble, and I’m not going to believe that an Orlesian wouldn’t know enough about politics to realize this.”

Anders was a little miffed that Nate hadn’t ridden to his rescue before this - danger had been hunting around the Keep long before Caron got it into his head to single out Velanna, but suddenly he was too tired to make any comment on it.

“I just took her post this time,” Sigrun said with a shrug. “Sure, it was a pain to be saddled with a bunch of rookies who didn’t know how to cover for me - I would’ve liked to have brought Justice along, but I don’t have the authority to boss the rest of you around - but Nate called it a leadership opportunity.”

“It was,” Nate said, placidly.

“It really wasn’t that bad. You Surfacers can be all the entertainment a girl needs.” She twinkled at Anders.

He half-bowed back at her from his seated position with a grandiose sweep of his hand.

“What’d you convince them of this time?” Oghren asked.

“That I had to kill a raging bronto with my bare hands to earn the honor of working with the Wardens.”

Oghren pondered this for a second. “This means they think I killed a bronto too, right?”

“I think so?”

“Dammit, girl, you should’ve said it was a dragon.”

“Does this mean that we are prepared to confront Rolan?” Justice asked, hand curling into a fist. Anders assumed that the question didn’t have anything to do with hypothetical bronto- or dragon-slaying.

“I’m not sure -” Nate started.

“That that would be a good idea,” Anders finished.

Justice rested his head back against the wall with a quiet thunk. “Yet you all are now prepared to act.”

“Action doesn’t always mean confrontation,” Nathaniel said. Anders was unsure whether he minded Nate’s even pride or Justice’s live-wire earnestness more; he just knew that he’d never, ever run out of material to mock them with.

Justice trained his eyes on Nathaniel’s face and said nothing.

“I’m not sure you’ll like our plan, though,” Nate said with a lopsided smile.

“Oh?” Anders said brightly.

“We’re going to get Rolan arrested,” Sigrun said. “Or at least egg his face so bad that nobody’ll mind what his brothers in arms do.”

*

“How did you survive, before this?”

“What’s wrong with my fire?!”

Velanna tsked at him. “It’s not going to last through the night like this, it’s giving off more light than heat, and - is that green wood? Creators above, I’m just glad that you didn’t stick any poison ivy in there.”

Anders scowled and hugged his uniform closer around his shoulders. “Poison ivy? I’m not sure I’d recognize it, but hey, I can always heal myself.”

“Want spiders in your bedroll, Anders?”

“Are they big spiders? Then we might get dinner that’s not hard-tack. I bet I’m no good at cooking spiders either, though,” he said, voice turning somber.

Velanna blinked and then started laughing, a loud staccato sound, dog-toothed canines flashing. Anders beamed and shuffled closer to his sad example of a fire.

A clump of ferns behind Anders started rustling. He swore and scrambled for his staff, half-turning and sliding off the mossy log he was sitting on. Velanna started laughing harder.

Sigrun waved cheerfully. A long earthworm dangled from the waving hand, and she had quail eggs cradled in the other.

“Maker’s holy cock, Siggie,” Anders said.

“What? These bush-things announced my arrival.”

“Sig, why do you have a worm?” Velanna asked gingerly.

“Can you Surfacers eat them? It looks edible.”

Anders raised his eyebrows at Velanna.

“Oh, give it over to Anders,” she said, in a breathy laughing voice. “The Anders are excellent worm cooks; the Dalish can’t compare.”

*

It took them most of the day to find the Dark Wolf. When Tabris had initially met with him, they’d had Nate and Oghren and Sigrun along instead of the three of them, and while Anders and Velanna let Sigrun’s lead, she admitted that she ‘haven’t gone looking around Amaranthine; at least not where the smugglers could see me and where I’m not supposed to go, we’re not enemies but I don’t think Tabris likes them much’. She led them to the crenellations where the Amaranthine guard often stood watch. Below and in front of them, apparently, was where Tabris had first found the Dark Wolf.

“Ketti thinks they’re cousins,” she said, resting in the shade against one of the crenellations. “Wolf’s smart enough to tell them what they want to know and Ketti knows that, but they were gonna talk to their dad about their mom’s side of the family. There’s a resemblance.”

“With the pointy ears, and the general criminality? I can see it.”

Velanna’s face wrinkled up and she angled her eyebrows down at Anders. “Really, shemlen?”

“What? I’m not wrong. They’re an elf, and, incidentally, I’ve never once seen them respect a law if there was a better way to do something. Or not do something. Like turning me over to the Templars. They definitely didn’t do that.”

No one said anything. The sunlight and sea breezes did an admirable job of hiding the frigid edges of the space up on the crenellations, but Anders still felt them, and pressed his teeth together in annoyance. Why couldn’t Velanna just leave it be? He admired Tabris, he really did, even if there was a chance - there was always a chance, and he most often found that it was a concrete and deep one, too late - that he didn’t understand them.

Sigrun shuffled to lean over the wall. Anders shuffled closer to her. He wasn’t afraid of heights, but.

“I think that’s him.”

“Wasn’t there a guard there when we got here?” Velanna asked.

“No. Well, yes there was a guard, but he left. And there’s him.”

“Do you think he’s waiting for someone?” Anders asked.

“No. This is where we found him last time.”

Anders opened his bag and brought out a piece of parchment. “I have an idea. It worked wonders for passing notes in the Circle.” He stared at the blank page. “Sigrun, is there some kind of rogue’s cant? Velanna, could you write ‘we have a job for you and lots of money, xoxo’ in elvhenan?”

Velanna snatched the paper and scribbled something. “He’s a city elf, idiot, he probably doesn’t know elvhenan.”

Sigrun raised her hand. “He’s not Carta either.”

Prepping a quill, Anders spattered some ink over his knuckles gesturing. “Why do I try, again?”

“Do you?” Velanna asked.

“Yes?”

Sigrun grabbed the quill from Anders and Velanna handed her the parchment; then after a moment of consideration grabbed at Anders’ sleeve. “Transcribe this for me.”

After Sigrun had dictated the note, Anders bent it carefully against the cobblestones until it resembled a peregrine falcon in flight in general silhouette. He considered trying to warm the air, or cool it, to get rid of those pesky breezes in their little corner of Amaranthine, but inventing spells in the moment always run a risk, and -

“How do birds work?” Anders mused to himself, before squinting at the Dark Wolf and lobbing the parchment.

It struck Wolf square on the shoulder and he jumped a bit, hand going to his sword. He looked about before seeing the parchment at his feet. He read it and looked up. Sigrun waved. Anders rested his crossed arms on the wall and smiled winsomely, which was not going to be seen from down there. Wolf shook his head but disappeared under the wall, and the dull clanking of armor heralded his arrival on the wall.

“Warden,” he said to Sigrun, and then to the rest of them, “Wardens.”

Anders realized then that without Tabris or Nate he had no idea how to be professional.

“Spymaster,” Velanna said, “we’re in need of information.” She stood with her spine stiff as the corpse of an ironwood tree, ears flattened over her wheat-gold hair.

Wolf nodded. “And you’re working in the Commander’s name?”

Velanna nodded. Anders opened his mouth to clarify, anxiety crawling up his spine, when Sigrun stomped on his foot.

“I can set up a tab,” Wolf said, and Anders decided that Tabris was right that Wolf was related to them. “What do you need?”

“Information on lyrium smuggling. In the area around Amaranthine and the Vigil,” Anders said.

“It exists,” Wolf agreed. “Are you looking for anything else? Leverage over the smugglers?” Anders had no idea if Wolf was affiliated with the smugglers, but doubted it. He seemed to be a higher class of criminal.

‘Rolan. What’s Rolan doing?’ Anders stared at Velanna, shifted from foot to foot, and choked down the words.

“Sources and recipients,” Velanna said. “Don’t bother with this city’s smugglers.”

“That’ll be harder,” Wolf said. “When do you need this information?”

“Faster than last time,” Anders said.

Sigrun smothered a laugh and Velanna cast her eyes to the sky.

They agreed to meet at the same place deep in the night of two days from. Wolf had wanted three days, but when Anders agreed to a night meeting Wolf agreed - although Anders suspected that Wolf had only thrown out the option to tease them.

While they went down and out back into Amaranthine proper, Wolf tapped Anders on the greave.

“Yes?”

He handed him a scroll. “From our mutual friends.”

Anders glanced down at the scroll, thumbed the loose tangle of twine over the two half circles smudged on a corner, and shoved it into his satchel. His hand seemed to burn or tingle where he touched the parchment where he imagined the ink lay. “I have no idea what you mean.”

Wolf shook his head - disappointed that he was dealing with them and not Tabris - looked for a moment at Velanna, and left the steps back to the crenellations and the sun.

*

“I’m really glad Justice isn’t here,” Sigrun muttered, sliding Anders a mug of ale. He’d been imbibing on the grounds that it helped him blend in with the locals. Sigrun hadn’t been the least bit convinced, but hadn’t said anything. Velanna had been matching Anders drink for drink, in the lead by a mug or a sip Anders wasn’t entirely sure. Sigrun had been in and out of the tavern - or maybe into the back rooms of the tavern - while Anders and Velanna fortified themselves for the day-long trip back to the Vigil, a trip that would need almost immediately to be repeated once they’d reassured the Vigil that they weren’t deserting.

He remembered the time Justice had elected to visit; Kristoff had had friends here, and for some ungodly reason Tabris had supported this little conviction, the way they supported most of their friends’ decisions. He’d been in and out of the tavern since joining the Wardens, but had stayed quiet, often cutting himself off in the middle of a polite reply or introduction, arms awkwardly crossed, standing with Tabris or Anders between him and any of the tavern’s other guests.

‘Do you think this is going to work?’ Anders had asked, somehow endeared, also with a mug in hand in this memory. They were loitering near the fireplace. Justice waved over a waitress who he’d known as Kristoff. Rose. Anders wondered if Rose had admired Kristoff. He wondered if she was looking for another Warden to admire. Tabris had disappeared somewhere.

‘No,’ Justice admitted. ‘But if it doesn’t, I’ll have learned more than I would by making the wrong decision on Aniketos’ half.’

‘If only all of us could be so fearless.’ Anders shoved Justice a little with his shoulder. ‘I’ll play wingman.’

‘I don’t know what that means.’ Justice looked down at Anders. ‘I’m not sure it’s best to trust you with this …’

‘Like you said, what could go wrong?’

“I doubt he’d have the patience for this,” Velanna said, lifting her empty mug up to catch light through it. She had her feet propped up on the table and was melting into her chair. She seemed to be enjoying herself.

“Shouldn’t you be grateful that I’m getting us free drinks?”

“If she isn’t, I am,” someone behind Anders said. Sigrun looked up and her eyes widened; she smiled. Maybe it was someone she knew, or maybe it was just Sigrun. Anders lounged back to look behind him, and up. He was smiling as he did so, friendly-like, but the smile lifted into something genuine and a little sharp.

He hadn’t seen her come in, and between her comport and the Wardens’ unfortunate familiarity with Amaranthine’s byways, he didn’t think she’d come in through the front door. But she’d made herself known now. She wasn’t tall, but she claimed space with her colorful clothing and some quality that Anders remembered in silhouette from the Queen. Here was a woman accustomed to giving orders, although she was no Fereldan or Orlesian noble. Some denizen of the underworld, then. Some shark among the pike and minnows. Half a creature of the underworld himself, when sun set on luck, Anders could feel the force and import of her.

A woman of compact muscle and soft, dark brown skin, on the short side, freckles like brine-spray across her collarbone, cleavage, and high round cheeks. Her black-painted lips curled up, demure. Several cliches rushed to Anders’ mouth, and he’d started to say, “Now I have something to be grateful for,” when Sigrun butted in after the “now” with “hey! Want to help us drink it?”

“Would I,” the beautiful woman said, and pulled up a chair between Anders and Sigrun. “What are we drinking to?”

“Oh, just saving the world,” Anders said, which was a line he hadn’t been able to use before.

“Really? What did we need saving from?”

Sigrun shifted like she was trying to kick Anders under the table. “That’s Warden business.”

The stranger rested her chin on a wrist and smiled her elaborate close-lipped smile. “Sure it is. And don’t the Wardens deserve some admiration for all your hard work?”

Anders lifted his shoulders, straightened up. Tamped down on his smile, turned it knowing and syrupy-sweet. “Of course we do. Not that we do it for the admiration, but after long patrols forging -”

“Anders!” Sigrun hissed. “Stone’s breath. That’s not why we’re here.”

“Oh?” their guest asked, two fingertips resting on Anders’ hand as she went to take his mug from him. “And why are you here?”

“Why are you?” Anders asked, disinclined to do his job, even if this time his mission wasn’t Warden business and in fact was - oh dear. It was to save his own ass this time around, wasn’t it.

She looked up at him and furrowed her brows, smirked, saying that he didn’t really think that would work, did he?

“We’re looking for a reputable businessperson,” Sigrun said, toying with her own mug. “To move some rare provisions for the Wardens.”

The strangers’ eyes snapped to Sigrun, and though leaving her hand where it was she tilted away from Anders. “Oh? How very convenient. Didn’t I just hear about an investigation into smuggling in this town?”

Sigrun shrugged. “Yeah. We can’t exactly hire people from prison, though, can we?”

Her fingers were now resting across Anders’ wrist, and tightened around it. Anders kept very still. “Was that a threat? Did you just threaten me?”

Sigrun shook her head. “No, we’re not here for you. That doesn’t help anybody! But we might have a proposition.”

Anders was impressed with himself for not saying anything right then.

“So I’m the only game in town. I’m flattered! What do you need moved?”

*

Captain Isabela, unfortunately, was good at her job. It didn’t take her long to figure out that they were after her contacts.

“It’s not worth it to you to bring me in,” she said. “You’ll be burning all your bridges with the Raiders and our allies - and everyone needs a helping hand sometimes.”

Sigrun winced. “We’re not here to bring you in! We don’t care! We just need information for … political uses.”

“Yeah, and that’s not going to burn me when I turn traitor.” Isabela looked unimpressed. “Well, it’s been fun. Lots of foreplay, inflated reputations - but that’s shore leave for you.” She slid down from the table she’d been perched on in the back room where they’d taken their business, decorated with half-eaten food and a half-finished draft documenting their contract. “Message me when you figure out who wins.”

“What do you want?”

She stopped in the middle of the room. “Hm? What did you say?”

“I said, what do you want?” Anders deliberately did not look at Sigrun. (She was waiting, anyway, knowing his intent).

“What does any pirate want? Money. A score. Pretty things.” She smiled at him again, meaning nothing by it. “The Wardens are good allies, but I don’t want to get caught up in somebody else’s civil war.”

“Maker, we’re not trying to start a war! We’re just - trying to. Oust a headache no one wants.”

“Define ‘no one’.”

“The only reason he’s here is to harass me, because a free Mage is an insult to the holy order, the natural order, and every Templar’s sense of self-worth, but if he were really anyone’s pet, they wouldn’t have let him get conscripted into someone else’s army, would they?”

“So it’s about you. Not some border dispute.”

Anders shrugged. “What can I say? I’m popular.”

Isabela looked between Anders and Sigrun. She shrugged. “Nothing won without risk, and you’ll pay me what I ask.”

Anders was going to agree - the Vigil was, after all, filthy rich - when Sigrun piped up. “We’re mostly trying to turn up the presence of the smuggled lyrium. We don’t need to keep it. And we’ll get the information we need anyway, so you can just say you didn’t tell us anything.”

“Done.”

*

“Fancy meeting you here, stranger.”

“Yes, I just stumbled on your secret hideout. Now you have to whisk me away to serve on your ship forever,” Anders said absently, face in a letter while he thumbed through a sheaf of shipping documents with his left hand.

“Was it the lady warden who stole my map of Ferelden?”

Anders was going to respond with, ‘that doesn’t sound like her’, which it didn’t, but only a whistling sort of noise came out under his breath. He pressed the letter to his face for a moment before tossing it onto the sheaf of papers.

Isabela was looking at him oddly, holding an unlit lantern, one foot on the small pier and one on a boat. “I almost think I know -”

“Rare parchment allergy. Terribly unfortunate for a mage.”

“Almost as unfortunate as getting caught snooping around a smuggler’s hideout.”

“Oh I’ll be back up in a moment, Velanna and Sigrun are already in the saddle.”

“You owe me a map along with my payment.”

“I don’t think this was us. Check with the Dark Wolf.”

“Isn’t Aniketos the Dark Wolf?”

“Apparently there’s.” Anders paused, wondering why she’d refer to his Commander with their first name. “There’s two of them. They might be cousins.”

“Oh, that’s likely.”

‘Our more radical friends have mostly gone from the Circle here; I pray that this will take the Knight-Commander’s eyes off those of us with smaller ambitions, but Gerhart has been absent for three weeks now. I know this is not what you want to read in your new life as a Warden - and might I say again, Trygve, how impressed I am that you’ve gone from Tower legend to an actual Warden! - but it brings me great strength to know that you’re free, and even if you hadn’t been conscripted, you wouldn’t be here; if I can convince the other Enchanters that I am not a seditionist, I might get transferred back to Calenhad, now that you’re gone.

That wouldn’t be too far from the Wardens’ purview.’

*

Anders didn’t let on that he could tell the atmosphere at the Vigil was chill and ailing when he returned. The open blue horizon was some miles behind him, and his energy was building up again, fizzling over in enough non-stop talking that even the two women who’d traveled across half the arling in his (and, yes, Velanna’s own) defense had gone beyond short with him into flat disdain.

Anders wasn’t even particularly unhappy to be sent on patrol right after, until Oghren, of all damned people, blew a derisive raspberry at him the moment the door to the barracks was closed. 

“You want something, Oghren?” Anders muttered, packing. He paused, hand and eyes on the brilliant turquoise of the robes he’d been brought to Vigil in. He still liked how he looked in them. He still wore them for holidays. Yet - he looked dashing enough in his new uniform, and there might be a chance of going through with it this time. There was a chance or there would be no chance at all after. Not after he’d served an elvhen arl, Loghain’s mercy, his own Circle’s mercy, witch-saved, on the same side of a drawn battle line as that fucking talking darkspawn, not after Velanna and the Blackmarsh and in no world after Justice. No, for all his beautiful stolen words, the spirit was just something else to run from. If Anders was brought under a templar’s boot again he wouldn’t be getting back up.

“Sure I do. But nah, I want to know why you’re leaving the Howe here right after we set this plan of ours in motion.”

“Does it matter? Everyone knows what they should be doing. I did my part.”

Oghren tromped over and sat down on Anders’ bunk. Anders shot him an annoyed look, but didn’t say anything. Oghren had the air of a man about to impart deep wisdom. That wasn’t going to happen, but Anders knew from experience that he couldn’t dissuade Oghren from talking. He was even more tenacious than Justice when he wanted something. “You haven’t noticed how he’s been quiet ever since you lot came back from Amaranthine?”

He had. He hadn’t thought it was his business. It hadn’t been long.

“Yeah, well, I was never one for politics - bunch of bronto dung - but seems like the reason that Rolan’s not crawling up your ass right now over your little vacation is that he has a new target.”

Anders dropped his pack, fumbled for it, caught it up again. “What?!”

Oghren shrugged. “Just seems like they’ve caught on to some of it. Hope Caron and Rolan aren’t - more - clever than you lot.”

“Us lot, you mean.”

“... Yeah. I guess the Commander wouldn’t like how that Orlesian ponce is moving in on their territory, would they.” Anders thought Tabris would try to woo Caron first. They’d -

“No worries - I believe that if you could save us all and drive them away, they’d have left the first time they met you,” a Anders said sweetly.

*

Justice had taken up residence in the library. This had the convenient effect of emptying the library of most other Wardens and hangers-on. After deliberating with himself, Anders had made his way to the training fields, where Nathaniel most often could be found in times of stress. The rapid-fire thunk. thunk. thunk. of a longbow heralded Nate’s presence.

‘Nate! Howe you doin’?’ 

‘Anders.’

‘Morale meeting up in the library,’ Anders said, hooking his thumb over his shoulder, ignoring the way that Nate let his joke fall flat - his pained tone was reward enough. ‘Vacation’s over, sad to say, and it’s back to scheming.’

They’d made it off the sawdust of the archery range when Nathaniel cleared his throat and said, ‘Thank you.’ Anders nodded once, face turned towards the door or the ground, embarrassed.

All the senior Wardens, meaning Tabris’ friends, had arrived to consult. Scheme. Provide emotional support. Nathaniel looked drained - not as much as any of them did after a night or nights spent in the Deep Roads, but Anders felt uneasy about having not thought to do anything about this new problem before.

Velanna touched Nate’s hand, two fingers, the side of her hand to his palm, before going to sit in one of the velvet-covered chairs. Sigrun waved. Oghren was rummaging through the children’s section. Justice stood at one of the windows, palms planted on the sill, facing outward. There was something foreboding about his manner, even aside from his inhuman lack of motion.

Of course it was Anders who broke the silence, shattering it like a child with a mirror. “So what’s Caron doing now? Absolutely nothing good.”

“That much is obvious,” Nate groaned, flopping into his own chair. “In answer to your question, though, he’s trying to get me hauled in front of the local magistrate and executed for treason.”

There was the whisper of metal grinding on stone. “They hold him responsible for his attempted theft, but it’s not Vigil they want reparations for.”

“Of course not. He’s been in the thick of fighting darkspawn for it since he got here,” Anders said.

Nate gave a shallow smile to the room at large. “Thanks.”

“It’s for his father’s crimes.” Justice sounded troubled. “If there is choice in this world, there cannot be evil. Not the evil the templars speak of - for it would not hide from itself.”

The words echoed, the room felt larger. The echoes cracked on the edges like ice. Anders stared. He didn’t want Justice to doubt. He doubted Justice wanted to, either. Something dangerously like pity welled up in the back of his throat, and he turned to see that Nate was also looking at Justice with an odd intensity.

“Well, they are Orlesian,” Anders said. “No matter what Loghain did, I don’t think they’ll be winning any popularity contests any time soon. And -” Anders stopped abruptly.

“What? What is it?” Velanna asked, wary.

“I think I have an idea.”

“You have an idea! Shock! Horror! Alert the village crier!”

“Are you done?”

“Yes.”

“What were we talking about?”

“You were about to tell us that,” Sigrun said.

Anders sighed and rubbed at his face - it was almost another good day. He hated to feel sure that, even if life gave him a pardon, calamity would collect its due.

No one was ever safe in -

Of course no one was ever safe in the Wardens. You had to play dice with death to make it past recruit.

“Riiight. The Queen. Is it treason that I forgot that for a moment?”

“I don’t think she’d execute you for that out of everything else,” Nate said.

“I’m touched. Really. My point being, I know we all want Tabris to come back. And I’m not saying that I don’t have faith they will,” Anders lied in a rush, an offhand effort - but they wanted to believe him. “But while we’re all stuck taking orders, there’s someone who can boss even an arl around. Someone who owes her crown, her country, and her father’s life to Commander Tabris, and who confirmed I belonged to the Wardens instead of the Circle in the first place. I say - if His Highness Wannabe Chevalier Caron wants to play politics, we go to Queen Anora.”

Nathaniel nodded slowly. “Escalating this conflict - whoever Caron’s related to, he can’t claim title anymore, and I have a hard time believing that anyone’s personally attached to the man.”

“But,” Sigrun broke in with forced cheer. “Let’s hope it’s not necessary.”

“But if it is, I got us a deal on incriminating details about both Rolan and Caron,” Anders said, smug.

“Tabris got us that deal,” Velanna said with only a bit of bite.

“Yes, but Captain Isabela likes me best.”

“I dunno,” Sigrun said, “maybe she wants to carry me off to a life of piracy?”

*

Caron tried to drag Nathaniel before a magistrate. His first motions would be uncontested.

Nate was trustworthy - even Caron and Rolan couldn’t get around that. So they didn’t try to stop him from calling a last meeting of his own; Rolan stood at the entrance to the dungeon and glared into the shadows, held back fearing more than darkspawn. Anders would have taken that as a victory. He felt like a rat ran to ground.

Only Justice put forth a vote for taking back the Keep right then. Standing before a sarcophagus, as if listening for something, his voice didn’t carry back up the stairs.

“Let’s not cause an international incident,” Anders said.

“Unless we have blackmail material on him first,” Velanna said. “Which we do. But we still can’t throw the first punch.” She furrowed her brow. “Shouldn’t.”

“But I promise you,” Sigrun said, “if they do officially arrest Nate, we’ll stage a daring rescue and you can smite whoever you want.”

*

The thing was, Anders didn’t think that he’d be doing a brave thing by acting courier for documents and illegal imports while Velanna and the old pigeoneer, who like most of Vigil’s long-term residents was loyal to Aniketos, sent an urgent message by pigeon, using Ketti’s own seal which they’d left to Nathaniel. He genuinely didn’t think that anyone would care. They were all focused on Nate, right? Nate was the important one. Nate was taking a stand. Nate would protect Anders if it came to it, so even to Rolan Nate had to come first, if something were to be done.

Anders was no woodsman. Still, something had his hackles up halfway through his journey. He could feel wisps start to roil about him on the other side of the Veil, uneasy - not much help in a fight, and wisps weren’t sentient enough to want to be; they could be manifestations of his own anxiety, but then again, even Anders, powerful and Circle-educated as he was, didn’t know everything about how magic worked. He suspected that he knew very little. (In other circumstances, this was a source of comfort - and during the rare fair weather of fate when he could forget who he was, awe).

He didn’t know that he could set an ambush, either. While he no longer looked like an overgrown bird of paradise, the sapphire of a Warden uniform wasn’t camouflage. 

They - they - weren’t far from Amaranthine when fate let loose their hand from the handle of the executioner’s axe like rain.

Anders had dismounted his horse long enough to water the thing. He hadn’t felt comfortable stopping in the thick woods when they could stop at a stream, so he’d stopped where the road went through a dragon-scarred bit of hill. (It was dry and red like fresh scar tissue, but he could taste salt on the air.) Trail, really - he wasn’t risking the main road, for secrecy’s sake, and Nate’s, in case Caron was inspired to do anything rash. And habit, maybe. Thinking about it, controlling his breathing, he realized that he was as protected by Tabris’ name as Tabris themself and that because of that he might be safer among the peasants and petty nobility of the arling than here among the brush, trees, and wild. Not many trees here.

Nothing for it now. Nothing for it now, anything is good as anything else - take the next step forward. Or leap, if necessary.

He had his back to the man-height stone cliff behind him, which bowed out into the trail and back, and he heard movement before he saw anything actionable. Already on edge, he snatched his staff from the loose leather tie that fastened it to the saddle. The horse put its ears to its neck and sidled away. Anders reached for the bridle, missed, and turned near nose-to-nose with Rolan, who already had his sword out, held near horizontal, wavering the margin of movement of silver clouds above hot metal, serpentine.

“Rolan.”

“Senior Warden Anders.” Rolan smiled. He had the crooked teeth of a man who’d spent his childhood in feudal poverty. That was something to be said for the Circle. They hadn’t always fed the apprentices well enough (for a man of Anders’ stature), though they had the money for it, but in such close quarters, no one ever wanted to neglect hygiene.

Anders wrinkled his nose for effect. “Was there something you wanted? I know for a fact you haven’t scheduled yourself such a long, tedious patrol.”

“Not just me. All my friends, too. I am wondering - what are you doing out and about? As you said, I know for a fact you weren’t scheduled for this patrol. No one was. This isn’t a damned patrol route.”

Anders grinned with teeth. “I never said I was on patrol. I’m on my way to a have a bit of fun while Nathaniel’s otherwise occupied. Callous, I know, but you’d know by now that that man is all work and no play. Well, maybe you wouldn’t. You aren’t much fun either.”

Rolan half laughed and kept his eyes trained on Anders’. It was too much, when all Anders wanted to do was back up and get all the other threats into his peripheral vision. “Oh, I don’t know about that.” Buckethead appeared behind Rolan. Anders did nothing as Buckethead accosted his nervous horse and started digging in his saddlebag. “We all have to take pleasure in our jobs, don’t we? In doing the right thing.”

Anders very much wanted to set him, and Buckethead, and all of their friends, on fire. “I don’t know about that. I’m just a lowly mage, and I do what the Hero of Fereldan tells me to do, but honestly? When it comes to doing the right thing, I’d rather take a Blighted demon’s word than a Templar’s.” The fire was under his skin now. It felt like sunlight, and it could wait for him to lose his head, because it’d always be there. It could certainly last as long as his life.

Rolan looked past Anders to Buckethead, who waved a piece of parchment in the air in triumph. “Oh, really?”

“Y -”

“This paper has the coordinates to a lyrium stash, Warden,” Buckethead said.

“And I’d bet you’d just about recognize them,” Anders snapped. “You should have put in a request for provisions with a senior Warden.”

Rolan tsked. “Anders, Anders. Smuggling? Theft? Oh! And how did Rylock die, again? Nothing to do with you, I’m sure.”

“Nothing to do with me.”

“Kenrick, drop everything in those saddlebags into the ravine. Anders, I find I’m a bit thirsty. You know how it is. Leaving the Chantry, there’s some supply chain problems.” He held out a hand.

Anders handed him one of his smaller and more dilute lyrium potions.

Rolan crushed it between his bare left hand and his breastplate. Blood sprang out red and hot to the eye between his fingers. If he wanted Anders to feel guilt for his own hand in this pantomime, his own ordinary motions lent to it, this? This was nothing. Rolan was playing at nothing but murder here. Humiliation, sure, but. There were some things it was worse than this just to remember.

Rolan looked at his hand in shock, although he kept it to the side, not between his right arm’s reach and Anders. “Men, the Commander’s pet mage has turned blood magic on his comrades, just for -”

Anders reached into his magic and lashed out at the souls around him.

Rolan was trying to kill him in earnest, Anders trading blows with him and Buckethead and two others; mostly him and Buckethead, thank the Maker, the four others tangled up in the short ranges of their weapons.

They were still wary of breaking their blades on the enchanted iron of Anders’ staff. (As mentioned, the Circles even outside of Orlais enjoyed pretensions to palatial coffers). That caution was the only thing enabling Anders to leverage his much greater range to such effect. Dull iron on armored bodies could only hope to bruise.

As distracting in the moment as another body on the battlefield was -

“Stop this instant!”

And Buckethead actually did. In that moment Anders swept his hand up a foot along the staff, using the channel to add a little bit of momentum to the spell as he froze Buckethead solid, smiling an unpleasant smile before he even fell to the ground.

“Anders.”

“Feel free to pitch in any moment, spirit,” Anders snapped, again preoccupied with Rolan and trying to see a way out from between him and the stone. Justice might smite him himself, but he’d take that risk.

“Why are you trying to kill your brothers?”

“The Mage attacked me with blood magic. Remain obedient to our cause, creature, and your Commander will have no cause to turn you out.”

Anders smiled, which Rolan didn’t notice. He should’ve kept his mouth shut and let Justice’s assumptions work for him. As it was -

“This is the second time I’ve caught you acting in bad faith. Lay down your arms, all you who stand with Rolan, and you’ll -”

This was interrupted by more sounds of battle. Now Rolan looked concerned. And well he should! Though his fear was likely rooted in superstition, and what Justice himself might not realize - there would be no peaceful surrender to a demon, for the faithful. Not after an open fight had broken out, so that doing so would be faith and not - politics.

Anders’ anger had burned out his own fear. And that was the mistake. The tiny life or death turn in the stream.

Justice’s conquest near them was going well. For Justice. Rolan, still pressing the advantage into Anders’ guard, was going pale with panic, but he would try to kill Anders before he was outnumbered. (Numbers didn’t matter now). He had no way to know, but Anders had a particularly potent entropy spell locked behind his teeth waiting for a free moment. Whatever Justice had in mind - and it was obvious enough from what he was doing to Rolan’s backup - would be a cleaner death than what Anders offered.

There was a quiet moment. Both Anders and Rolan paused the smallest moment, Rolan more afraid of the revenant behind him than the mortal Warden. Anders afraid for Justice, and he looked past Rolan -

He heard the scrape of steel on granite. He thought - He thought nothing. He intended nothing. Reason, sentiment, soul had already fled before pain that had not been conceived of before that moment. Maybe something like being kicked in the chest by a steel boot. More than that. A warhorse, a battering ram.

During Rolan’s lunge he’d seen the triumph on his executioner’s face, but now nothing. He knew he was dead. In that interminable moment of pain, he just wanted it over with. There was also a roaring grief, and the amusement that went along with what would have been the thought “at least I don’t have to deal with the fallout” if he’d had the time for it.

More cool steel, now in the shape of another hand around his own, but the pain had had its fill, and there was nothing else.

*

The hill was red with more than its own wounds, and the sun was setting.

To the wild things of the arling, these hills still smelled of dragon. There were no vultures or crows here.

Just one tall figure in black armor. Gaunt like death. And stooped among the dead on the ground, bridging the rivers of life’s blood.

He stood with a long limp figure in his arms.

There was iron on the air, but also salt. To the north there were fresher winds.

And unseen, a small dinghy just off the coast.


End file.
